


Sister Susie Sitting on a Thimble

by LayALioness



Series: 12 Days of Bellarke! [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Kid Fic, Married Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5372804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title from My Two Front Teeth</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sister Susie Sitting on a Thimble

**Author's Note:**

> title from My Two Front Teeth

Clarke hears Raven make an irritated noise—somewhere between a grunt and a growl—as she burns herself on the curling iron, _again_.

To be fair, it’s not really her fault that they’re doing a rush job on the lion mane. Clarke had just been swamped at work for the last few weeks, and completely forgotten until tonight, just six hours before the nativity play.

Hence, the rushing.

“When the _nerf herder_ is your _nerf herding_ husband getting back?” Raven demands. Lately, in an effort to curb her swearing around little ears that liked to repeat what she says, she’s been substituting all bad words with Star Wars references. It’s been quite the success.

“Mom, what’s a nerf herder?” Victoria asks, as if on cue.

“A person who herd nerfs,” Raven supplies unhelpfully, and presses another chunk of wig to the iron, until it curls.

Meanwhile, Clarke’s putting the finishing touches on Augie’s costume. He’s an angel, which basically means she cut a bedsheet in half and is pinning it together artistically. She also made a halo out of an obscene amount of pipecleaners, which her son refuses to keep on.

Her kids are going to have the _best_ costumes.

Raven’s just putting the finishing touches on the wig-turned-lion’s-mane, when Bellamy walks through the door, carrying his weight in grocery bags and looking incredibly frazzled.

His glasses sit crooked on his nose, like he hasn’t remembered to fix them. Clarke looks up at him, fond.

“Was there a shortage of ice cream, or something? Did you have to go the next town over?”

They’re also in charge of bringing ice cream, for the refreshments table after the play. Clearly, they forgot about that, too. Clarke would like to blame it on how busy and productive they’ve been lately, but mostly she and Bellamy have just been marathoning _Project Runway_ while the kids are asleep.

“I didn’t know what kind to get,” Bellamy explains, a little hopeless, and Clarke gapes at the piles of different pints he starts to stack up on the counter.

“So you got them _all_?” She’s torn between being outraged by his ridiculousness, and grudgingly impressed.

Raven finishes her last curl with a whoop, and then stands, making a face when her bad leg creaks a little. “That’s my cue to split,” she declares, heading for the door. Victoria and August each run up to pull on her arms a little, in protest. “I’ll see you squirts at the church,” she promises, smacking a kiss to their heads before leaving.

Clarke suspects she’s only leaving so early to get properly drunk before the play. Raven treats day drinking like a sport.

“Bell, can you finish Gus’s robe?” she asks, lifting the supplies from her lap. She’s covered in the little white threads that started to fray when she sliced the curtain. She’s definitely going to have to change.

Bellamy glances over, from where he’s trying to fit the massive collection of ice cream in the freezer, like a jigsaw puzzle. Clarke’s kind of hoping they’ll only have to bring _half_ to the church, and keep the good stuff for themselves. She’s pretty sure she saw a few Ben  & Jerry’s when he was unloading the bags.

“I thought you finished that one already,” he grins, walking over. “You’re way better at the art stuff than I am.”

“Yeah, but you’re better at sewing,” she points out, as he folds down beside her. Bellamy always sits down like a dog whose legs are too long—he sort of bends them together and then just _drops_. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Bellamy hums and takes the needle from her, rethreading it since her knot was beginning to come undone.

“See?”

He grins, and presses a kiss to her hair. “Yeah, yeah—I’ve got this. Go make your daughter a lion.”

“She’s _your_ daughter,” Clarke argues, but she’s grinning to. “You named her, remember? I wanted Kate.” That had been their agreement; Bellamy got to name the girl, and Clarke got to name the boy. She’d had him _convinced_ she was going to choose something horrible like Jedidiah or something, but then told him to write August on the birth certificate, as a compromise.

“Highlighting the word _lion_ on every page it appeared in the bible, just to win an argument with her teacher? That’s all you, babe.”

Clarke knows her grin is ridiculously proud and sloppy, but she can’t help it. Victoria got nearly everything from Bellamy—her dark hair, her dark eyes, the freckles on the bridge of her nose, her short temper and affinity for stories about the Trojan War—but she was her mom’s level of stubborn.

“What kind of Sunday school teacher doesn’t know there are lions in the bible, anyway?” Clarke argues, and Bellamy laughs.

“I’m not saying she was _wrong_ to fight it.” He leans over to press a kiss to her nose, before she stands up. She’s pretty sure she left the face paint in the everything drawer in the kitchen, but she honestly can’t remember.

“You literally named her after the goddess of victory,” Clarke points out. “You jinxed us. Our child is going to totally be some guerrilla freedom fighter when she grows up.”

Bellamy grins, softer than usual, like he always does when she mentions their kids’ futures. Like he’s picturing it as he speaks. “There are worse things to be.”

Clarke does find the face paint in the kitchen, but stuffed in the spice cupboard. She only knows to check there because she finds a bottle of turmeric in the everything drawer, squished between all the extra pens and double-A batteries and the smoke alarm Bellamy was supposed to try to fix. She’d wanted to just give it to Raven, but he’d been feeling especially vulnerable in his dad areas that day, and had decided a good dad knew how to fix a smoke detector. She’s still not sure _why_ , but. Obviously, he grew out of it.

It probably helped that she got the kids to make Why My Daddy’s The Best cards out of construction paper. Clarke had to write the actual reasons, as they dictated, and then August scribbled chaotically over most of his, while Victoria’s had a liberal use of Disney princess stickers. She mostly used Belle, for obvious reasons.

Bellamy cried, when he saw them, and Clarke knows they’re still taped to his office wall, years later. He’ll probably leave them there for the rest of his life.

“Little lion,” Clarke calls up the stairs. There’s a fifty-fifty chance Victoria’s in the bathroom, playing with the makeup kit Octavia got for her birthday. Except, Victoria doesn’t like _wearing_ the makeup, so she just sprinkles the eyeshadow around like fairy dust, until everything is coated in pale pinks and purples. August usually tries to help. Which mostly means he eats it.

“ _Where_ is my little lion at?” Clarke calls, despairingly, and hears a tiny giggle to her left.

 _Ah_ , the broom closet.

She opens up the door to find two little piles of old coats, the exact sizes and shapes of a five and eight year old.

“I wonder if lions can wear coats,” Clarke muses, and the eight year old pile giggles, which sets the smaller one off, too. “I didn’t know lions could giggle. I thought they roared.”

The bigger pile gives a muffled roar, and then a coughing fit when she chokes on her own spit. Clarke reaches down to pat her back, through all the coats, and Victoria shakes them off, until her head appears, hair wild with static.

Clarke gasps dramatically. “There you are!” Victoria rolls her eyes.

“You knew it was me, mom,” she accuses, and shrugs out of the rest of the winter gear. Beside her, August is struggling to free himself, so Clarke reaches over to help.

“You might be you right now,” Clarke agrees, and then waves the tube of black face paint in her daughter’s face. “But you’re about to be a lion.”

Victoria grins, and races down to the hall bathroom, which has the best light. August sits on the closed toilet seat, bouncing with jealous enthusiasm as Clarke paints whiskers and a muzzle on her daughter’s face.

“Angel'th can have whi'thker'th,” he says, petulant, as Clarke caps the paint. He's recently lost the two important teeth that let him pronounce all his s's. Victoria’s fanning her face with both hands, trying to make it dry faster.

Clarke reaches over to ruffle his hair—perfect curls, a strange shade between brown and gold. Where Victoria looks like Bellamy’s double, August is a more clear mix of them both.

“Maybe next year, bud. If you can find a whiskered angel in the bible, and show Mrs. Kane.”

Bellamy’s finished with August’s costume in record time, of course, even managing to fix up Clarke’s rough pin job. She’s just not the best with sewing, okay? Give her paints or charcoal, any day. Thank god, Victoria’s costume was just a lion onesie they found online.

“No eating any of the shepherds,” Bellamy says sternly, as he fits Victoria’s wig-mane over her hair.

He watches the kids while Clarke goes up to change—there are all the threads still stuck to her capris, and some of the face paint that she accidentally wiped on her thigh, and also what she’s pretty sure is spaghettio sauce, on the sleeve of her shirt. It’s been a Day.

She’s already changed into her favorite dress, classy while still showing a modest amount of cleavage, and a pretty purple-blue that compliments her eyes, when Clarke notices a split in one of the sleeves. They’re just little cuffs, but the split is still noticeable, so she shrugs on a cardigan, because she cheats. She’ll have Bellamy hem it when they get home.

Clarke comes downstairs to find them all dressed and ready, with Bellamy just zipping up August’s jacket, the Spiderman one he refuses to _not_ wear. Clarke caught him sleeping with it the other day, like a teddy bear.

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” she grins. “We’re all ready on time!”

Bellamy makes a face, but she doesn’t miss him eyeing her up and down. Twelve years with the man, and she still flushes instantly. “You look great,” he says, voice a little hoarser than usual.

“So do you.” She presses a kiss to his jaw, and decides to leave the mark there. It’s just a pale pink, barely noticeable. But _she’ll_ notice it, and it’ll be great. “And we have a play to get to,” she says, prim.

“Five bucks says Raven’s drunk when we get there,” Clarke whispers on their way to the car. Bellamy slaps his palm against hers, and keeps it there.

“You’re on.”

Raven’s not drunk when they get there, but she is sipping from a flask and leaning against the brick building, so Clarke’s pretty sure if they’d waited just ten minutes, she would have won.

“Pay up, Griffin,” Bellamy says, smug, and Clarke huffs a little.

“What’s yours is mine, Blake,” she grins, and he squeezes her hand.

“God, you two are _chuf-sucking_ gross,” Raven grumbles, making a face.

“Mom, what’s chuf—”

“It means orange,” Bellamy says, because he is absolutely ridiculous, and always caves when it comes to lying to their kids.

Except for Santa Claus, apparently.

“He’s a metaphor,” he’d explained once, when she’d asked. “For hope, and the season. Happiness. So he’s not a lie, really. It doesn’t matter if the actual _guy_ doesn’t exist; it’s the spirit of it all that matters.”

“Okay Linus,” Clarke smirked, patting his head. “So when they ask what sex is, you can just say _it’s a metaphor_.”

He hit her in the face with a pillow.

Since August and Victoria are in the play, they have to line up with the other kids, on the side of the room. August keeps knocking his halo off and then hesitating, before putting it back on. Apparently the wrath of his mother outweighs his doubts. Victoria keeps glancing over to grin at them, or wave, or make silly faces when she sees Clarke has her phone out.

“Isn’t that, like, sacrilege, or something?” Raven wonders idly, like she doesn’t have a flask of straight whiskey tucked away in her coat.

“The service hasn’t started yet,” Clarke sniffs.

Octavia and Lincoln show up to take the seats that Bellamy covered with jackets, for them, and Lincoln has to help her into the pew. Octavia’s wearing an enormous print sweater, that makes it look like her belly is a Christmas ornament. Clarke takes a picture of it, discretely, because Octavia is on the warpath when it comes to social media. She’s making sure there’s no record of what she looks like pregnant, which Clarke thinks is a waste. Octavia is the hottest looking pregnant person ever. Photos of her would be inspiring, honestly.

Bellamy leans over to whisper in her ear, as the music starts up. “Our kids have the best costumes,” he says, smug.

“All the kids look adorable,” Clarke argues, like she hadn’t been thinking the exact same thing just two hours ago.

Bellamy seems to know too, and rolls his eyes, turning to watch the angels freak the shepherds out on the hill. August’s halo starts to tip when he flails a little at the cardboard star up above them. But it stays on, which counts for something.

Victoria’s a hit, of course, as the first-ever lion in an Arktown nativity play. Clarke’s definitely smug about it. But, then again, she’s smug about everything when it comes to her kids. They’re her kids; she’s earned that.

She cries a little at _Silent Night_ , like always, and Bellamy rubs her arm in slow circles as the play closes. The kids all do a little curtsy-bow, clearly not sure which to pick. Everyone claps, and then heads straight to the lobby, for cake and ice cream and some of those little triangle finger sandwiches that Clarke unironically _loves_.

She’s had like, four, before they decide it’s probably time to head home. It’s past midnight, way past the kids’ bedtimes, way past _their_ bedtimes, and they’ll still have to get up early for presents.

Wells has joined them by then, from where he was upstairs, playing the organ. As far as Clarke knows, he’s the only organ-player in the tri-state area, which puts him in pretty high demand around this season. He’s clearly happy about it; Wells doesn’t really get to talk about the organ as much as he would like, because nobody else really cares.

But he slips the kids his presents, even though he’s coming over for dinner tomorrow, so he could have easily given them there. But he likes feeling like he’s being sneaky for once, so he makes a big show of having them hide the little boxes behind their backs. Clarke already knows what they are; savings bonds for their future, along with something they’ll play with for the next year, like those little matchbox cars, or a Polly Pocket.

Raven offers Wells a ride home, since he’d caught one with a member of the choir, and the rest of them pretend not to know that they’ve been _carpooling_ for weeks, now.

Octavia grumbles a _merry Christmas_ and hugs Clarke and Bellamy, and then tears up a little when she hugs the kids, because she is very pregnant and hormonal, and it’s Christmas, and she’s probably thinking of that video where a golden retriever gives its owner a candy cane. She keeps reposting it on Facebook, like five times a day.

Eventually, they’re pulling up in their driveway, and Clarke’s still not really sure _how_ their car is magic, but it definitely is, since in just the fifteen minute drive from the church to their house, and despite the fact that they just ate their collective weight in sugar, August and Victoria are passed out in the backseat.

Bellamy carries Victoria inside, while Clarke barely manages to hold August, which freaks her out momentarily. He’s just so _big_ now, when it feels like just days ago he was still barely a weight in her arms.

Once the kids are tucked in—they’ll worry about brushing teeth in the morning. One night won’t kill them—Clarke trails downstairs after Bellamy, and they collapse onto the couch in a daze.

“They really did have the best costumes,” Clarke says, words muffled by her husband’s chest. Bellamy runs a hand up her back and she can _hear_ the smirk on his face.

“Told you.” His hand brushes at the slit in her sleeve, the pad of his thumb warm against her skin there, and Clarke shivers, glancing up.

“You were Super Dad today,” she says, because she knows it’ll make him blush. He doesn’t disappoint, and she reaches up to take his crooked glasses off, and set them on the table. “Seriously—you saved everyone from having _no_ ice cream. Which, clearly, would have been tragic.”

“Clearly,” he agrees, wry, and then rolls them both over, so he’s hovering on top. “If I’m Super Dad, you’re Wonder Mom.” He bends down, breathing a trail down her neck before pressing his mouth to the skin under the hole in her sleeve.

“You know what that makes us?” Bellamy moves down her body, pausing to dip a kiss to her breast or her stomach every few inches, until his shoulders are settled right between her thighs, and he glances up with a smile. “Power couple.”

He stretches his hand out for a high five, which she gives him, just brushing his fingers, because she’s too wound up to _think_. He huffs a laugh against her skin, pushing the hem of her dress up with his nose, until he’s mouthing at her, warm and wet and perfect, while she whines and grinds up against his face.

“Merry Christmas,” Clarke says, muzzily, in the middle of it all, and Bellamy grins right up against her, so she can feel the flash of his teeth.

She’s still panting, coming down from her high, about to tug Bellamy up so she can return the favor, when they hear “Daddy?” from the top of the stairs.

Bellamy’s head falls down against her thigh. “ _Blast_ ,” he grumbles, and she shakes her head a little.

“Not you too.”

He looks up to grin at her, giving a half-shrug. “It’s catchy.” He swipes a kiss to her mouth, tangy and wet and not nearly long enough, before heading over to the stairs.

“Five minutes,” he calls back to her, and Clarke smirks at him, running a hand back down to her thighs, dipping in between them.

“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” she teases, and he hisses another not-swear before racing up the steps.

“Two minutes!” he calls, and she laughs. She can hear him checking Victoria’s mattress for bed bugs, and then her closet for the giant spiders she had a nightmare about.

Clarke closes her eyes with a smile, tucking herself in to wait.


End file.
